


I Got You Under My Skin (Permanently)

by WarMageCentral



Series: Young and Loaded [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Can be taken as a stand alone, Drunken tattoos, I just can't with these two, Implausible sillyness, M/M, a metric fucktonne of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarMageCentral/pseuds/WarMageCentral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel wakes up one morning with a hangover and a new tattoo.<br/>So does Feuilly.</p><p>Chaos ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Got You Under My Skin (Permanently)

**Author's Note:**

> This series is an expansion of my fic "The Dirt Beneath His Feet" and it focuses on the other Amis and all of their shenanigans so as to keep TDBHF more Enjolras/Grantaire centric. 
> 
> Ficlets in this series can probably be taken as a stand-alone.
> 
> All of my work is usually written at supid o'clock and always unbeta'd so if you die of typos I'M SORRY
> 
> Enjoy!

Bahorel likes tattoos.

Bahorel likes to drink.

Add these with Andy the local tattoo artist who agrees to etch into his skin whatever his drunken mind can conjure up (even though he’s pretty fucking sure that’s illegal now and he _told_ Andy to just send him the fuck home next time) and Bahorel is altogether too familiar with waking up after a night out with a killer hangover and some new ink that will be with him for the rest of his life.

So when one morning he wakes up on his bathroom floor with a towel tucked haphazardly under his head (probably Feuilly’s doing - even when blindingly drunk his roommate somehow always manages to take care of him) and the familiar sting of a new tattoo on his ribcage, he steels himself to see the new addition to the various designs on his skin that illustrate his life so far - or things that he thought sounded like a good idea at the time.

As Bahorel sits up slowly and tries to internally slay the evil beast that is wreaking havoc on the land (or what normal would call a headache) he figures that the tattoo can’t be that bad; certainly not as mortifying as the eight (mostly misspelled) rules of Fight Club written on his back or the pair of bright red lips on his right ass cheek or the bold letters that proclaim “Thug Life” on his arm.

Certainly not.

When the worst of the dizzy spells are over Bahorel can finally stand up and gripping the basin of the sink he faces himself in the bathroom mirror. Examining his face first he notices a new cut on his eyebrow and a couple of scratches but no major damage, meaning that it must’ve been a slow night all in all. After splashing some cold water over his face Bahorel lifts his shirt for the grand unveiling of his new tattoo.

He’s glad to discover that it’s small, at least. One word, writing in a swirling sort of calligraphy that is hard to make out at first, especially with only a mirror’s reversed reflection to go by, but after a moment Bahorel can make out the letters _F-e-u-i-l--_

No.

No.

_No._

“ _GOD_ FUCKING _DAMMIT_ ANDY! _”_

Bahorel is breathing. Bahorel assures you he is breathing. Bahorel is also going to find that two-bit tattoo artist and punch him so hard his mother will feel it. Why the fuck would Andy let him get _Feuilly’s name_ tattooed to him _for the love of all fuck_.

Maybe he can hide it. Maybe he can get a cover-up. Maybe he can just pretend its one big joke and his friends won’t tease him too much--

It is at about this point that Bahorel remembers who exactly his friends are and despairs at the fact that he will _never_ live this down.

It is also at about this point that a topless Feuilly runs into the bathroom, nearly taking the door off its hinges with a roar of “ _What the fuck did you do, Bahorel?_ ”

Bahorel wonders how Feuilly managed to see his tattoo before he did and why he is only getting mad about it now when he takes a look at the other man’s bare chest to see Bahorel’s own name etched in Feuilly’s skin in Andy’s signature scrawl.

“I didn’t do anything!” Bahorel protests after a moment of heavy silence, throwing his hands up.

“Like _fuck_ you didn’t.” Feuilly whispers dangerously, with his lips turned up slightly in something that definitely isn’t a smile that reminds Bahorel of Hannibal Lector. Or that creepy guy from Sin City. Who is also a cannibal. Bahorel really hopes Feuilly doesn’t eat people because if so he is fucked seven ways to Sunday.

“Look,” He starts again, trying to quell the urge to break into hysterical laughter or punch something in the face, “It’s not like I grabbed a needle and tattooed our fucking names to each other!”

“Yeah but it was your fucking idea!”

“How do you know that?” Bahorel demands, wondering if Feuilly can actually remember any details from the previous night because he sure as hell can’t.

“Because it’s always your idea! Everything stupid and mortifying we ever do is _always your fucking idea._ ” Feuilly growls, patting his pockets down for cigarettes that he doesn’t seem to have and Bahorel figures he has approximately six seconds to live.

“ _Why is everyone shouting_?” A scratchy voice demands from the bathroom door and Bahorel must jump three feet in the air because it most definitely isn’t Feuilly.

“Eponine? When the fuck did you get here?” Feuilly asks confusedly, crossing his arms so as to hide the new ink and throwing Bahorel a glare to do the same.

It is indeed a bedraggled Eponine Thénardier standing in the doorway with an unlit cigarette and an expression that could kill dead things. “Last night. I think.” She mumbles, before reaching into the back pocket of Feuilly’s jeans and extracting a lighter which, okay.

“You don’t remember anything either?” Bahorel moans, to which Eponine shakes her head and lights her cigarette.

“Wait.” Feuilly says suddenly, “How much of that did you hear?”  

“Not much,” She admits, expelling smoke with every word, “Just that everything is Bahorel’s fault. Nothing new there, then. Why, what did he do this time?” Eponine narrows her eyes suspiciously at the two men who cross their arms a bit more tightly around their tattoos, trying to act nonchalant.

 “He was let out into the outside world. What else does he need to do?” Feuilly says simply and Bahorel would probably punch him for the comment if he didn’t think it would reveal the man’s name written across his ribcage.

Though Eponine’s eyes remain narrowed for a moment she eventually shrugs and nods her head, probably too hung over to argue. “Well all I remember from last night is those tequila shots in that place with the people and stuff.” She states, eloquent as always.

“Helpful.” Bahorel mutters darkly and this whole situation reminds him a bit too much of Dude, Where’s My Car (minus the aliens and, you know, the car).

“Shibby.” Feuilly mumbles and he must have come to the same conclusion.

“Yeah well whatever. All I know is that I woke up on Bahorel’s bedroom floor with some Korean guy’s business card down my bra so I’m just gonna take R home and shower for a few hours.”

“Wait, _Grantaire’s_ here, too?” Bahorel asks incredulously, half expecting Jehan to come skipping in from under the kitchen sink or some shit.

“I’m not sure, but we usually do end up waking up in the same place and he was there at the start of the night. I just don’t know where he could-- oh, hang on.” Suddenly, stubbing her cigarette out on the edge of the sink, Eponine bends down to take off her shoe and throw it into the bath behind Bahorel where it hits something that growls briefly before going silent again.

Turning towards the bath and pulling the shower curtain back they find Grantaire curled in on himself, clutching a bottle of--

“We were drinking _absinthe_? Well that explains a couple of things.” Feuilly mutters.

While Bahorel wonders where the fuck they managed to find a whole bottle of absinthe (and how they’re all still alive after last time) Eponine is already kneeling by the bath poking Grantaire in the back. “C’mon R, we gotta go home.” She doesn’t receive a response and Bahorel expects their favourite cynic to take up residence in their bathroom for the next few days until Eponine says in an overly excited whisper, “Grantaire, there was a fire at Enjolras’ apartment! All of his clothes were destroyed and he has to walk around naked!”

Suddenly a head of curly black hair shoots up so fast that it takes the man’s eyes a few moments to focus before he takes in the scene in front of him and growls, “Cheap move, Thénardier.” He begins the slow laborious task of sitting up and getting out of the bath. “And I _told_ you not to let me fall asleep in bath tubs anymore. When I wake up I keep thinking I’m in a Saw movie or something.”

“Noted,” Eponine replies with an amused glint in her eyes, “Next time I’ll just let you pass out in an alley somewhere.”

“Thank you.” Grantaire mumbles though Bahorel can’t be sure if he’s even been listening or if he’s focusing too much on standing up (or getting over the disappointment of not seeing Enjolras naked).

When Grantaire finally masters the art of standing upright, he shuffles into the living room and, finding his shoes, throws himself onto the couch to put them on.

Where he ends up sitting on Bossuet’s head.

Their bald friend lets out a noise that is akin to a death rattle before rolling off of the sofa and onto the floor, where he is asleep again in seconds.

Bahorel, Feuilly and Grantaire all look at him for a moment before turning round to Eponine who simply shrugs and says, “I don’t even know where he came from. We must have picked him up some time last night.”

“Joly’s gonna kill us.” Feuilly whispers solemnly and everyone else nods in agreement.

When Grantaire eventually gets his shoes on and manages to look a little less like he just stepped out of a bath tub, he and Eponine slap Bossuet wake while Bahorel and Feuilly excuse themselves to put on shirts, resolutely not looking at each other until everyone leaves and they can deal with their inky situation.

“How did I get here?” Bossuet grumbles confusedly when he manages to sit upright without feeling nauseous.

“That, Bossuet, is the right question.” Grantaire answers him while trying (and failing) to steal a cigarette from Eponine’s pocket.

“What?” Bossuet asks, no less confused but now smiling slightly. Bahorel supposes that he must always be happy with his lot in life (though he’d have to be with that kind of bad luck).

But then again why shouldn’t Bossuet be smiling? He doesn’t have his best friend’s name tattooed to him.

“Nothing,” Grantaire dismisses with a wave of his hand, “well I don’t know about you guys but I could go for some coffee. And I’m guessing you have nowhere to be today and that you want to avoid going home to a certain hypochondriac who is likely give you a chemical shower and smother you with pamphlets about the dangers of alcohol consumption.” He nods to Eponine and Bossuet in turn, who both shrug their agreement and slowly make their way to the front door.

Bossuet turns around to Bahorel and Feuilly and asks, “Are you guys coming.”

The two glance at each other before Feuilly says, “Nah I have work soon and I’m making this asshole clean the apartment.”

This answer seems to satisfy their three guests who leave the flat with different variations of “Smell ya later” and then only Feuilly and Bahorel remain.

“So--” Bahorel starts.

“So what the fuck are we gonna do?” Feuilly demands, turning on his best friend.

“Well we can always get them removed, or I know a guy who can do good cover-ups--”

“Cover-up? _Laser treatment?_ Bahorel do I look like I can afford that? I don’t even know how I could afford _this_ tattoo in the first place!”

Bahorel hates to admit it but his friend has a point. “Well I suppose there’s nothing we _can_ do till we save up enough, then! We’ll just have to wait.”

“Just wait-- Just--” Feuilly splutters, arms flailing wildly but after a few seconds he knows there really isn’t anything they can do, he snarls “ _Fine._ ” and storms out of room. Bahorel, since he has no sense of preservation, decides to follow him.

He finds Feuilly sitting on the couch lighting a slightly bent cigarette (he must have slept on the box) and looking like he’s trying very hard no to punch a wall. Or Bahorel. Bahorel likes to think that punching the wall would hurt less.

Perching on the arm rest, he tries to start a conversation, “Well I guess this means we’re better friends than Enjy and Ferre, now. Betcha they wouldn’t get tattoos of--”

“Bahorel if you don’t stop talking, this cigarette _will_ go in your eye.”

For some reason Bahorel doesn’t doubt his roommate for a second.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I just can't leave the Bahorel/Feuilly bromance alone xD
> 
> So this series is new and I'm taking prompts, so if you want to see anything at all from Courfeyrac and Jehan having a picnic to Combeferre going food shopping or anything at all pwease let me know and you'll be my bestest friend.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated as I turn into Gollum with every scrap I get and pore over comments in a cave chanting "my preciousssss" (well, maybe not a cave but shhh)
> 
> My tumblr is warmagecentral, feel free to say hello whenever, be it to give me prompts or ask me what colour my socks are (that's what people talk about, yeah?)
> 
> Thank you and goodnight!


End file.
